


Fire Through Wine

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Series: The Connington Series [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is set in the same universe as the rest of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/170249">The Connington Series</a> so you might as well read those first, otherwise this won’t make a lick of sense…. Not that those make much sense either.</p>
<p>*</p>
    </blockquote>





	Fire Through Wine

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as the rest of [The Connington Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/170249) so you might as well read those first, otherwise this won’t make a lick of sense…. Not that those make much sense either.
> 
> *

“Will you not take a cup of wine?” Jon asks the Lord Commander. Aegon is already out there drinking with the men, celebrating another victory over the wights. The men say that every small victory is something to be cheered, and Aegon is more than happy to encourage him.

But this boy, this serious one, this one the calls _Aemon_ , privately, and _Lord Snow_ every other time, shakes his head, but grants him a small smile. His heart constricts.

“I would prefer to think on my foe with a clear head,” he says, but leaves the door to his chamber open, an invitation for Jon to enter. He takes it, and takes a seat across from the boy commander who looks weary beyond his years.

_He is not such a boy any longer,_ Jon thinks sadly, because no one should have this many burdens on their shoulders. But the boy shoulders it well, never wavering, at least not in public, where every eye is trained on him.

“Any victory is worth celebrating,” Jon says, but the words sound lame in his ears, and he regrets having said them.

“And that is why I let the men celebrate,” Jon Snow says, “but I won’t celebrate until the threat is over. I have seen first hand what comes of thinking you are safe.”

The boy leans back into his seat and winces, gripping at his side.

“Were you injured?” Jon asks, alarmed. _I cannot let Rhaegar’s son die,_ he thinks, and almost rises to call Haldon in to look at him, but the boy, _Aemon_ , is waving his hand dismissively.

“It is an old injury,” the boy says, a little sheepishly. “It pains me from time to time.”

“From a battle with the Others?” Jon asks, curious. He has seen Jon Snow fight. The boy is a formidable source with his sword, the bastard Valyrian steel. He cannot imagine anyone, save an Other, getting the best of him.

Lord Snow’s face hardens at that, and once again, he looks like a man of many years, rather than a boy of six-and-ten.

“With my brothers,” Lord Snow says bitterly, and Jon’s eyes widen in surprise.

This time, the boy doesn’t wait for Jon to ask another question, he continues speaking, telling Jon the story. _Confiding_ in him. It fills him with joy.

“They thought… they did not agree with what I meant to do,” Lord Snow says mildly, after a fashion. “They sought to stop me.”

“What did you seek to do?” Jon asks. He does not know much about the Night’s Watch, just that they serve for life, but he imagines that even if the boy— _Aemon—_ were to break his vows, they would simply behead him, not stab him.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part,” Lord Snow says, and suddenly, though he is looking at Jon, his mind is far away, and his eyes are hazy. Jon feels a sharp pang in his chest. How many times had he seen that same expression on Rhaegar’s face? How many times had he seen Rhaegar’s mind wander, thinking about his children, his future, the prophecy, mayhaps?

The men say that Jon Snow is all Stark, but so much of him is _Rhaegar_ , it makes Jon’s heart race to see it.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part,” Lord Snow repeats, “but I thought that Ramsay Snow had my sister, and I would have forsaken every vow I made to save her.”

_Rhaegar foreswore vows for a Stark girl too,_ Jon muses, thinking of Elia and Lyanna, and all the things that led to Rhaegar’s death. Had his son nearly met a similar fate?

“And you stopped them?” Jon asks, wanting Lord Snow to continue, wanting to hear his voice, wanting to know the man who was so like Rhaegar, though he did not know it.

“No,” Lord Snow says, and he laughs a little, a mix of bitterness and wonder. “They stabbed me. I felt the knives go in, I felt the pain, I saw the blood. I fell to the snow, and I felt the cold wash over me.”

Jon’s brow furrows in confusion.

“How were you saved?” He asks, staring at the boy, surprised that he had not noticed any injuries before. He’d watched the boy train, with sword and dragonglass, and not once had he seen him wince in pain.

“What does fire taste like?” Lord Snow asks abruptly, startling Jon out of his reverie.

“Burning, I imagine,” Jon says with a weak chuckle, unsure of what the boy is asking. Lord Snow eyes lighten at that, and he smiles, though faintly.

“When I awoke again, I tasted ashes in my mouth, and my body burned. My skin felt like fire, but my insides… I felt the burn of ice.”

_Ice and fire_ , Jon thinks, and _oh_ for Rhaegar to be here, to hear this, because he is sure Rhaegar would know what to do.

“How?” Jon asks, and feels a fool for it, as though he is missing something vital, some important part that he should understand without the boy having to tell him.

“A kiss,” Lord Snow says simply, and the sadness in his face and far away look in his eyes twist Jon’s stomach in knots.  “I was lucky.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and then the boy chuckles. It is a small sound, as though he has just discovered something that amazed him.

“The free folk say that people with red hair are kissed by fire,” the boy says, breaking the silence and nodding towards Jon’s own hair. “It means you are lucky.”

Jon touches his hair in confusion, the fiery strands cold, even with his gloves, and the boy laughs again.

“We always need more luck at the wall,” Lord Snow says, and this time Jon joins him in his laughter.

“Mayhaps I will drink to that after all.”

Jon pours him the cup of wine gladly, a surge of pride racing through him, when Jon smiles at him and says _thank you, my lord_ , just as Rhaegar always had.


End file.
